


feel what i feel

by sapphic_commander



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angry Clarke Griffin, Angry killing, Angst, Clarke gets revenge, Clarke kills Titus, F/F, I can't do tags, I hate Titus, More angst, One Shot, Post Lexa's Death, Revenge, The 100 (TV) Season 3, Wanheda Clarke Griffin, Wanheda is mad, i miss lexa, someone give clarke a hug please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphic_commander/pseuds/sapphic_commander
Summary: The Commander of Death is angry. She has lost her love, and her murderer is still alive.And she is going to make sure that changes.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	feel what i feel

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning!: death, blood, stabbing, dead body. 
> 
> (I will say, there isn't much gore, just talking about blood and stuff, but it isn't detailed. If you're very squeamish though, proceed with caution.) 
> 
> Lady Gaga's Poker Face is really motivational when writing a fun revenge killing one-shot.

The Commander of Death.

Her legend is told in whispers beneath the stars, in dark alleys, at the tables of sour-smelling bars and taverns, beside crackling fires. 

As she kills, her eyes glow and take in her victim’s soul, drinking it like bitter wine on a late night. It is said she possesses strength only higher powers should have, has the ability to slit throats and break necks with ease. 

She slinks through the trees, more silent than a stirring of breath, bringing death upon the doorstep of those who have wronged her. Those who have wronged _others_.

No one can tell if she comes for justice, or for revenge. 

In hushed murmurs, like someone uttering a feared prophecy, the story of their march up to the mountain is told. 

It is said Wanheda walked alongside the Commander, their weapons ready and eyes glinting with fury and determination. She chanted the Grounder’s war chants with the vigor of a newly promoted warrior, voice echoing through the forest like a beacon for her people, and a warning for the Mountain Men. 

She was fearless. She was brave and courageous and valorous. 

She slayed the Maunon alone, no army of grounders behind her, just her broken, bleeding people. She emerged from the mountain fortress unscathed, leading her friends and family to the safety of their encampment, and returned to the woods without so much as a footprint left behind.

No one knew where she went, not even her own. 

Now she returns with her hair stained the color of blood, mud streaking her face like war paint. 

No one can tell her intentions. Is she vengeful, angry for her people? Is she prepared to make peace and re-institute the alliance?

Is she Death reincarnated? 

Clarke doesn’t care how people interpret this action. He will pay for what he has done. He will die with fear coursing through his veins, fade away as Clarke looks him in the eyes and utters her curses into his ear.

Will he regret what he has done, nausea roiling in his stomach due to his regret? Will his heart clench as death becomes inevitable, panic shortening his breath and tightening his throat?

Will he beg and plead and sputter for mercy, eyes filling with tears and hopelessness? 

As long as he feels pain.

Just an ounce of what Clarke felt.

Just a smidge of what _Lexa_ felt. 

Perhaps the Commander of Death will be satisfied. Perhaps reaping his soul will satiate her hunger, will dull her fangs. 

Dull her grief. Her inescapable, horrific grief. 

Although she would love to drag this task out for days, perhaps months, kill him slowly and painfully, she will have to resort to quickly and agonizing. 

Ontari is dangerous, volatile, and unmerciful. She killed the other natblidas in their sleep, and she will not hesitate to kill Clarke just as quickly. 

Clarke would return the sentiment, but it appears as though she only has time for one death tonight. She and Murphy need to get out of Polis as quickly as possible if they want to survive, and the cockroach is intent on not dying. He practically dragged her out of the throne room earlier to make sure Ontari didn’t have both of their heads. 

Clarke told him she had one last thing to take care of, and he had whined and groaned, but eventually gave in, as long as she promised to be back before morning. They can’t afford to be spotted. 

Clarke agreed, and stuffed him into an alley before whisking off back to the palace. 

Titus is sure to be busy, but she will catch him alone at some point. 

Now Clarke darts from shadow to shadow, cloak pulled over her head. There are only two guards at the entrance of the tower, and she smiles to herself, but it twists into more of an ugly grimace. 

Of course. Ontari is either a fool and overly-confident, or the palace is bustling with activity and they had to take the risk of using the other guards for different purposes. 

Perhaps both. 

For a moment, she ponders, then decides to avoid killing the guards. She only has one target today, and can’t risk getting discovered. 

Clarke distracts them easily enough, picking up a small pebble from the ground and rolling it between her fingers. She waits until the guards are shifted away from where she waits, then throws the rock towards a wall opposite of her. The sound echoes through the air, and the guards call out to each other. Luckily, they speak in a mixture of English and Trig, so Clarke can understand what they’re saying well enough. 

“Hear that?”

“Yeah, go check it out. I’ll stay here.” Clarke curses under her breath. She was hoping to get both of them away from their posts. 

“Just me? We usually have a buddy system.”

“Well in case you haven’t noticed, there are only two of us right now, so we can’t guard the door if we do that.” The second guard sounds bored, and Clarke suppresses the urge to simply throw another stone at his head. 

_Just_ go _you two oafs._ Instead of directing her annoyance towards the guards, Clarke throws another pebble at the wall, and Guard Number One jumps. 

“Jeo, just come with me!” Jeo grumbles under his breath, but eventually follows Guard Number One into the alleyway. Hissing out a relieved breath, Clarke races into the tower, then skirts down a hallway, her legs automatically carrying her where she needs to go. 

Servants and other seemingly important, or non-important, people hurry through the halls, but Clarke avoids them easily, ducking into unoccupied rooms and hiding behind walls. 

Her rage grows as she nears Titus’ quarters, shoulders tightening and jaw clenching. 

He will regret it. He will die filled with guilt.

Clarke will make sure of it. 

She stops outside the glass doors, pressing her ear against the panes. Inside she hears muffled noises, but she has to wait in silence for a moment, her own breathing loud in her ears, before she can make out what is happening. 

Titus is inside, mumbling to himself as he shuffles about. 

Clarke grins wickedly, manic laughter bubbling in her throat. Her hand closes around the dagger strapped to her thigh. A gun would be too loud.

Too similar to the way her love died. 

No, Titus will feel what she felt, but not with the weapon he killed her with. 

Clarke tests the doorknob. It is unlocked. 

She allows her rage, grief, pain, to wash over her. It consumes any reservations she has, replacing the good part of her conscious with one goal.

Kill him. Kill the Fleimkepa. 

Clarke lets herself in, hood thrown back from her face. She _wants_ Titus to see her, see the blanket of death she brings.

He will see Wanheda, feel her wrath. 

Titus turns from the table he is hunched over, papers scattered across haphazardly. 

“Ah, hello? I wasn’t-” He sees Clarke and pales, freezing in his tracks. A look of dread crosses over his face for a moment. He seems to read her expression well enough. “Clarke? You can’t be here! If _Heda_ sees you, she will-” 

Clarke crosses the distance between him in a flash, knocking Titus against the table. The sound of her blade scraping against its scabbard is loud enough for Titus to understand what she is doing. 

Her dagger is in his stomach before he can even make a noise. The Fleimkepa lets out a small breath, eyes widening and jaw dropping. 

“What-” he squeaks.

“Do. Not. Call her. That,” Clarke snarls, teeth bared like the panther that attacked her what seems like decades ago. “Ontari is not your Commander. She is an imposter. She is not _Heda_.” 

Titus wheezes. 

“Do you feel that?” Clarke croons, leaning in so that her lips brush against his ear, breath hot and menacing on his neck. “The pain of this steel in you?” Pulling back, she twists the dagger, and Titus gasps, knees turning to putty. Clarke holds him up by his collar. “Answer me, you old fool.” When he hesitates, Clarke pushes the dagger deeper. 

“Yes!” Titus yelps. “Yes, yes I feel it. I feel it.” 

“This dagger,” Clarke hisses, “is right where you _shot_ her. This is what she felt. This is what she _died_ feeling.” Titus whimpers.

“I- I didn’t mean to.” Clarke yanks the dagger out, blood spattering across her dark clothing, and pushes Titus to the carpeted floor. He lands with a dull _thud_ , not even making an attempt to put his hands out and slow his fall. 

“But you did!” she screams at him, voice anguished. “You did, and you killed her!” Titus blinks, actively avoiding looking her in the eyes. “You pathetic, cowardly, man,” Clarke hisses, crouching so that she can reach him. He tries to scramble back, but his blood already stains the carpet, and he is weak. “You are afraid to admit this is all because of you. All because you refused to accept _change_ , accept that things weren’t going to stay the same forever.” 

“I know,” Titus mutters, wincing. “I just thought- People would find her weak. People would exploit her and she would lose control. I was trying to protect her!” His voice rises with desperation, and Clarke laughs. She throws her head back and _laughs_. Titus stares, wide-eyed.

Perhaps she has finally gone mad. 

Before the Fleimkepa can say anything else, Clarke has him pinned to the floor. She digs her fingers into his wound, fresh, warm blood spurting onto her knuckles, her face. Titus shrieks, eyes rolling back into his head, and Clarke muffles the sound with her other hand.

“Lexa didn’t make a single noise,” she whispers. “She just-” Clarke chokes on her own words, swallowing back a sob. “She just took it. _You_ are the weak one. She didn’t need your _protection_.” Clarke spits the word out like poison, her voice strained as she holds back tears. 

“I know,” Titus says shakily. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to her, did to _you_.” 

It sounds much too similar to what Lexa said after Clarke held a knife to her throat. 

Despite the flash of crippling grief she feels at the memory, it is quickly replaced with white-hot fury.

How dare he.

How _dare_ he.

He ruined _everything_.

And now he just wants to take it back by saying _sorry_?

Clarke is silent for so long Titus looks awkward, but his expression is still clouded by fear. He doesn’t know what she is going to do next. 

He will die by her hands rather than slowly bleeding out. That is a luxury she will allow herself. 

Clarke positions the dagger right below his heart, palm on the hilt to allow enough momentum to push it through his ribs. 

“Wait, wait!” Titus begins, squirming in panic. Clarke has him pinned tight, and all he can do is writhe like a bug beneath her boot. The thought makes her grin. 

“Beginning to regret it, my dear?” she asks, tilting her head. Clarke leans forward, pressing the dagger harder against his skin. The Fleimkepa whimpers. “It was your job to keep her safe. To advise her, to help her make good decisions. Because she was just- just a _child_.” 

Admitting that out loud, voicing what so many thought, makes Clarke want to scream her sorrows to the entire world. 

Lexa was so young, prepared for her job since she was a child.

She was burdened by her duties, and she sacrificed _everything_ for her people. 

She was forced to make decisions Clarke never would have been able to, torn down at every chance, and villainized by so many.

She was strong. Much stronger than Clarke, much stronger than the adults who tried to undermine her. 

And for her loyalty, her efforts and love, she was killed. 

Titus closes his eyes, preparing for the final blow. Clarke watches a tear trace down his cheek. 

It makes her smile, but the gesture seems inhuman. She feels more like she’s imitating the emotion, and her cheeks are simply pulled back like she is trying to show off fangs. 

“She’s dead now. And who’s fault is that?” Titus doesn’t reply, limp beneath her. “Tell me!” Clarke roars, shaking him violently. Titus’ eyes jolt open, and he flinches. “Tell me, you useless little-”

“It is my fault,” he murmurs, meeting Clarke’s eyes. “It is my fault. I pulled the trigger, I killed her.” 

Perhaps he thinks Clarke will show mercy because he admitted it. But he knows better.

Wanheda knows no mercy. She knows no justice other than the edge of her sword. 

Without hesitating, Clarke pushes the dagger deep into him, into his chest. Titus screams. He screams and screams and screams, shaking and wailing pathetically. 

He doesn’t die yet. Clarke made sure of that. She dagger is embedded right below his ugly, beating heart.

That will change soon. 

Titus gasps like a fish out of water, his body seizing in stops and starts. 

“That,” Clarke purrs, bending in close so the dying man can hear her, “is how I felt. I thought I would collapse to the floor and never stand again. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest.” 

Titus responds by choking on his own blood. 

Clarke pulls the dagger free, simultaneously making Titus gag even harder on the dark crimson liquid, and plunges it into another side of his heart. 

The Fleimkepa howls, back arching, only succeeding in thrusting the steel deeper. 

“Ouch,” Clarke sympathizes, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

She can see the light fading from his eyes, and watches with what she hopes is a calculating, cold stare.

Inside, her own heart squeezes, making it hard to breathe. 

“She- she loved you- so much,” Titus gurgles, red staining his teeth. Clarke goes still out of surprise, not expecting this kind of sympathetic speech. “I- I’m sorry- I took that away- from you two.” He smiles a little, hand fumbling to hold hers, and she can only tense her shoulders.

Something about the gesture seems fatherly, and Clarke realizes this is the first time she has received any comfort since the event, aside from Murphy’s small moment of recognition. 

She begins to cry, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks.

Stupid, weak, tears. 

“She was lucky- to have you- in her- her last moments.” Clarke sobs, clenching her jaw as her whole body shakes from the force of her sorrow. 

“I loved her too,” she whispers softly, sounding like a scared little girl. Her self loathing grows, but she can’t seem to bring herself to care right now. “I loved her- I loved her _so much_. And now she’s gone. And I’ll never-never get her back!” Clarke wails, doubling over. The force of the realization presses down on her shoulders, and she cries harder.

She immediately wants to admonish herself for admitting this, letting the words roll off of her tongue so easily and allowing herself to be comforted. 

After all, _he_ is the one who put that bullet in her. He carried her body away with barely a tear spared. 

But she can’t seem to stop. She can’t stop crying. 

_Why can’t she_ do _something?_

Titus nods weakly. 

“I know.” His voice seems slightly clearer than before, but then blood bubbles out of his nose, and he makes an odd strangled noise. After a moment of coughing, he can speak again. “But she lives on in you, my child. She may be dead-” Clarke snarls, grief clouding her mind, weakly grabbing at the dagger and twisting it again. Titus opens his mouth to scream, but only manages a sharp exhale that spatters blood onto Clarke’s face. 

Clarke allows a small smile, tears already slowing. 

Good. That is what she is here for. 

Get the job done.

Make him _feel it._

Clarke wiggles the dagger even further, and Titus gasps, making a half choked sound. 

_Make him FEEL IT!_ her voice roars in her head. 

Clarke pries the dagger out, and the Fleimkepa’s shirt is quickly soaked through.

With her fury finally spilling over, she thrusts it into the space between his collarbone and neck. Blood immediately seeps out onto her fingers, trickling down to the floor. 

“You will die,” she hisses, “and you will do so painfully. Do _not_ pity me, comfort me. You killed her. You cut that chip out of her head with barely a second thought, tradition or not.” Clarke takes his very own blood on her thumb and paints it onto his face similarly to the way Titus did so with Lexa’s. 

She is not mocking their tradition, the way they execute ceremonies. She is trying to prove a point. 

How can she take his grief and guiltiness seriously when he moved on so quickly, so readily embracing the knowledge Lexa would _die_?

Titus seems to understand, realization flashing in his eyes. Despite this, he doesn’t protest, doesn’t defend himself. Perhaps he can’t, considering the weapon embedded in his neck. 

Surprisingly, he takes a wheezing breath, managing to form words with his red-stained, leaden tongue. 

“Before- before I die. Ontari is not- worthy of the Flame. There is- another Natblida, not worthy, but-” Titus cuts off, coughing. His words are slurring together as he rushes to finish his sentence on his deathbed, but Clarke understands him well enough. 

That makes her angry. She wishes he was in enough pain that he could only die with his words stuck in his throat, unsaid things just begging to be released, a tortuous process on death’s doorstep in agonizing silence. 

“Not worthy but- better than this nightmare.” 

“This nightmare is your fault,” Clarke grinds out, eyes narrowing to angry slits. 

“She ran. Like a- a coward. But- Luna is- Luna-”

Clarke feels a spark of recognition, and she straightens a little. Titus sees the change in behavior. 

“You- you are- familiar?” he chokes out, each word a struggle now. 

“Yes,” Clarke says curtly, not bothering to explain the entire Lincoln situation. 

“Can you- find her?” Clarke nods, clenching her jaw at the fact that she is agreeing with his horrible man, that she is going along with what _he_ wants. If anything, he should be cowering before her. 

_It’s what Lexa would’ve wanted. This is for her. Not him._

_For her._

“I will deliver the Flame to her.” Titus blinks, relief settling across his features. It only makes his death more imminent, making it seem like he is accepting his fate. 

“The- the leather- package. See it?” Titus lifts his arm weakly, hand trembling, as he points towards his desk. He can barely hold it up for half a second. Even so, Clarke sees what he is referring to. On top of the wood sits a square-like object, bound in brown leather. 

“Yes.” Clarke waits for Titus to elaborate, but she can see his strength is waning. “Is the Flame in there?” she snaps impatiently. 

“Yes. A book- a journal of the first- first- Commander as well. It will- guide you- through the ritual.” Titus heaves a sigh, relaxing a bit once he is done with his instructions. He has completed his task as a Flamekeeper. He gives her a small smile, and Clarke can see blood seeping into the cracks of his dry lips. “Thank-” 

“Don’t think this is forgiveness. And don’t think I will ever, _ever_ , accept your apology. All of this is because of you. And no ‘sorry’ can fix that. You killed her,” Clarke says, voice low and angry. “Do not try and take it back now. You are selfish. You are so _selfish_ . Even if you had killed me, not her, you would have hurt Lexa. You would do that to her, after all she’s been through?” Clarke’s voice cracks, and she shakes her head. “You didn’t deserve her. None of you did. _I_ didn’t.” 

Titus chokes on his blood for another moment, but then seems to find the strength to speak again.

And he promptly ignores Clarke’s accusations. 

“Do not- forget her wisdom… her legacy,” he forges on bravely. He can only speak in stops and starts, voice coarse. It is still a miracle, considering his current situation. Clarke honestly thought his last words would be him telling her to find Luna. Titus’ voice drops down to a whisper, barely heard above his ragged breathing. “She will- will always- always be with you.” 

With that, his hand goes limp in hers, and his eyes stare into nothing above him.

Clarke nearly laughs. It’s funny how he completely avoided the subject of his faults, but perhaps he was in a hurry to give one last bit of advice.

Typical Titus. He was always a pompous ass. 

She had expected to feel better after doing this, after murdering the man who killed her love. 

There _is_ a feeling of satisfaction, of hungry, hot pleasure. She doesn’t feel bad for him. Not one bit. 

At the same time, she feels emptier than she did before, a hole yawning at the pit of her stomach. 

Clarke takes the dagger and screams at the top of her lungs, stabbing it into the corpse over and over until her voice fails her. 

“I’m sorry Lexa,” she sobs. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I got you killed.”

She knows she blamed Titus. She still _does_. He pulled that trigger. He was ultimately her demise.

At the same time, Clarke played a part.

She tainted Lexa’s life, made Titus and all the leaders of the Twelve Clans angry. 

That bullet was meant for _her_.

And Clarke can’t help but wish it had met its intended target rather than the other unfortunate truth. 

Eventually, before the sun can illuminate the streets, the Commander of Death rises to her feet. 

She crosses the room, light illuminating the hair that has fallen out of place, her boots leaving red prints on the carpet, and stops at the worn, wooden desk. Lightly, she runs her fingertips across the brown leather holding the Flame. 

“I love you. I will never stop loving you.” Her voice is broken and cracked, as desolate as the dead body a few feet away. 

In her mind, Lexa responds, voice laced with bitter-sweet disappointment. Although it makes Clarke’s heart sink down to her stomach, it still sounds concerned and fond, gentler than it is angry.

_Blood must not have blood, Clarke._ _Have you already forgotten my words? I beg, please do not lose yourself._

The voice distorts, changing from Lexa’s more forgiving tone to Clarke’s own resentful, vengeful one. 

_Pathetic_ it snarls. _You stupid, weak girl._

_This is what happens to the people you care for._

_They will all die._

_And it will be all your fault._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! I started writing this late at night and let me tell you, it's very therapeutic to write about Clarke stabbing Titus a lot when you're a sad clexa stan. 10/10, would recommend. 
> 
> Anyways, screw you Titus, and my anger was immensely satisfied by writing this.
> 
> Hopefully it satisfied you too :)
> 
> Have a great rest of your day! Drink water, rest, eat food, be kind to yourself. <3


End file.
